There’s a little green two-seater which was blighted in its bud
There’s a dirty ditch outside of London Town
There’s a broken-hearted driver who is lying in the mud
Where the green car for ever holds him down.

He was known as Bully Nye in the land of Peckham Rye
And he never had a penny to his name
But one day while playing Ludo - using coins that were pseudo
He won a little fortune at the game.

To a mart in Piccadilly went our hero, this same Billy
And he bought a motor car that very day
At least, he bought a Ford - it was all he could af-ford
And he jumped inside and started right away.

The car began to hop it - and he found he couldn’t stop it
For he’d never driven any car before
He left the shop at five, and as sure as I’m alive
He ‘d been there and back again by ten-to-four.

But worse was still to come - with a thunder like a drum
The gathering gloom set all the wheels agog
His face turned ghastly white as the daylight turned to night
‘Twas the falling of the London yellow fog.

He clung tightly to the wheel, and he heard a frightened squeal
As he cut a passing pussy-cat in two
Then another frenzied wail, as a Manx Cat lost its tail
And the yellow air with curses turned to blue.

The conveyance he had bought was at heart a juggernaut
And it claimed the road it’s own, just like a hog
Dogs essayed to bark and bite as it swerved from left to right
And many a bark went home without its dog.

The poor driver, overawed, cursed this never-stopping Ford
It ought to have been taxed out by the Tories
He would cuff it, kick it, clout it, well - all he knew about it
All he knew of concerning Fords was funny stories.

Though in size it was a bantam, it flashed by like ghostly phantom
Many casualties figured in its log
Others thought they had D.T.’s and signed the pledge upon their
knees
As they saw the green car in the yellow fog.

A p’liceman tried to stop it, he didn’t progress very far
He was very soon too overcome to speak
He stood with hand uplifted, then his position shifted
And his funeral will take place Sunday week.

A lamp-post stood like a rock, but could not withstand the shock
As the car passed to an unknown destination
Though it knocked the engine out, with a wild, triumphant shout
The car kept running on its reputation.

The gear box went at Gloucester, where he ran o’er a coster
And the axel broke in passing o’er a dump
And at every turn and corner p’licemen popped up like Jack Horner
But all poor Billy felt was just a bump.

The horn fell off at Wapping, wrapped round a ladies stocking
And the mudguards said, “Good-bye” at Old St Giles
The seat collapsed at Jarrow, the speedometer at Harrow
After it has Eton up the miles.

The seat fell out at Fulham, and the back wheels left at Pulham
The magnito blew itself to bits at Deal
And as he passed by Earl’s Court Station, Billy found in consternation
There was nothing left except the steering wheel.

Still it ran in its mad flight, through the dark and stormy night
With the air as firm as any Irish bog
And the soldiers brave and tireless, they’d been called out by the
wireless
Chased the green car right through the yellow fog.

But at last the car seemed tired, and the sparking plug misfired
And one last expiring gurgle it did belch
Then to right it seemed to pitch, heaving Billy in the ditch
And he fell into its slimy ooze thus - squelch.

There’s a little green two-seater which was blighted in its bud
There’s a dirty ditch outside of London Town
There’s a broken-hearted driver who is lying in the mud
Where the green car for ever holds him down.